


Return to Life

by the_shy_shrimp



Series: Shattered Memory [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: All of the symbolism, Burning, But Elrond found him so now its okay, Divine Intervention of a sort, Family, Fix-It of Sorts, Healer Elrond, Healing, Homecoming, Hurt/Comfort, Maglor is Lost, Medical Procedures, Memory Loss, Metaphorical Infanticide, Metaphorical death in general, Near Death Experiences, Nightmares, POV First Person, Possible Character Death, and then fix it because we're not that cruel, broken Maglor, fading, if it ain't broke break it - Freeform, well maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27029089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_shy_shrimp/pseuds/the_shy_shrimp
Summary: Maglor is lost, and he has been for some time. But his feet know where to go, even if his head isn't present enough to know it, and so he ends up in the one place where he know's he'll be safe, even if its the last place he really wants to be. The only question is: Can he be pulled back from the gates of Mandos, or is it already too late?
Series: Shattered Memory [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2010511
Comments: 54
Kudos: 167





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> This one has been sitting in my folders for a while, so it isn't a new creation, but this is the first time its seen the light of day.

I do not know where I am. I stand here and try to remember what is happening, where I am, how I got here, and who I even am. The stones beneath my feet are smooth and ornate; a path, I think. There is some thin strip of leather in my hand, and the sound of hooves on stone nearby. I think I am tired, and maybe hurt, but I cannot remember.

_“Are you well?”_

I raise my head to see a dark-haired elf standing close to me. He looks concerned. I wonder how long he has been trying to get my attention. He looks so familiar. I cannot bring myself to think clearly enough to answer his question though. Instead my eyes dart around to the various objects surrounding us. A flowerpot filled with petunias. An ornate stone bench nearby. Two statues of elven warriors. A waterfall in the distance. Grand houses and buildings that seem to be made to fit in this tiny valley.

He tentatively lays a hand on my shoulder, and although his touch is gentle, it still causes my breath to hitch. My body sways as pain ripples from my shoulder, and my eyes briefly lose focus. The elf seems to understand what he has done, and removes his hand. I take a deep breath to steady myself. He touches my cheek and guides my head so that he is looking into my eyes.

 _“Have you a name?”_ he asks, more and more concerned as he draws me closer, carefully avoiding my shoulder.

“I…” I begin trying to speak, but I do not get farther than that before I feel like the ground is coming away from beneath me. I cannot see what is happening, as I shut my eyes against the dizziness, but there is something sturdy against the back of my knees.

The next thing I know, I am lying on the stone bench. The elf with the dark hair must have brought me there. I no longer have anything in my hands, and the elf’s fingers grasp at my wrist, holding tightly. I think I hear him yelling something, but I cannot discern what for the pounding of the blood in my ears.

I do not know where I am, or what is happening, but there are many hands now. They are pulling me upright. Or perhaps they are carrying me. I do not know. One of them jostles my shoulder, and I only make a small sound of pain. I can manage no more than that.

I am deposited on something soft: a blanket or even a bed. Oh, _Eru_ how long has it been since I have seen a bed? Immediately the hands roll me onto my side. I groan as they peel off my tunic, ripping the soiled and grimy fabric away from my flesh. I do not know how long I have worn these clothes. I find the number of hands on me overwhelming, and I try to get away from them, try to rise. But the hands hold me in place. They do not have to try very hard; I am too weak to get very far.

 _“Keep him still,”_ I hear the dark-haired elf say. _“He is disoriented. I don’t think he knows where he is.”_

There are others speaking too, but I only catch pieces of their sentences, for their tones are hushed and they speak quickly.

_“He looks… find..."_

_“… May be combative.”_

_"I’ll get it.”_

I clamp my eyes shut as they strip me down to my smallclothes. I feel the cold air on my legs and shiver, and inappropriate reaction for an elf, I know, but I cannot stop myself. I am afraid. The elf with the dark hair strokes my cheek and I chance opening my eyes. He looks at me kindly and I cannot stifle a whimper as a hand runs over my shoulder.

 _“Here,”_ he says as he holds a dropper in front of my face. I try to back away. I am so confused; I don’t understand what is going on. I am afraid. His hands are on my face again, parting my lips, forcing the tip of the dropper into my mouth and feeding me the medicine it contains. I try to spit it out, but it is an exercise in futility, and I am too weak to do even that much.

For a moment, they hold me very still. I want to go home, to get away. But where is home, for that matter? I do not know, and a tear slides down my cheek at the thought. I close my eyes and gentle hands run through my tangled and messy hair, lightly scratching away the layers of dirt caked to my scalp. I find it strangely soothing, and already I feel the tightness in my chest begin to dissolve.

I do not know why, but I take a deep breath and sigh. Perhaps it is the medicine. I feel like I am wrapped in a cloud: my thoughts are fuzzy and the constant pain that has been dogging me for as long as I can remember feels distant and muted. I no longer feel the need to get away, but am content to lie here. The elves holding me down release their grasp, or at least loosen it enough I can no longer feel it. I could almost fall asleep, as silly as that sounds. I can still hear their voices, though I understand even less of what they say now.

_“Who… I wonder?”_

_“Old injuries…”_

_"_ _…Arrowhead in his shoulder… healed over… cut it out.”_

I keen softly as strong hands hold my body still again. There is a chill and damp thing on the back of my shoulder, and then a painful sting. I try to cry out, but my tongue will not work. The stinging continues, like a thousand wasps, for what feels like eternity, before the pain is replaced by a dull ache.

_“… Should have waited.”_

_“…Definitely felt it.”_

_“Poisoned?”_

_“Possibly.”_

There is tugging on the skin of my shoulder, where the pain was just moments ago. I think they are closing a wound there. I take a deep, shuddering breath as a hand feels my forehead.

_“…High fever. We have to bring it down.”_

_“That’s probably what caused the… and delirium.”_

One of them covers my eyes with a cool, wet cloth. It feels better than I expected it to. It soothes the ache in my head and the pounding in my ears. I feel cool water being spread over me with wet rags. I wonder if they are trying to wash the months of caked-in sweat and grime off of me, to keep from soiling the linens. A wheezy breath escapes me, a pitiful attempt at a laugh. If I could only speak, I could have warned them that trying to get me cleaned was only wasted energy.

I still do not know where I am, or who these elves are, and there is a hand at my wrist again.

_“… Improved a bit.”_

I recognize the voice of the dark-haired elf.

_“Bring him something to drink. I think…”_

He goes on, but I do not hear. Soon I feel his breath on my face, and I know that he is leaning very close to me.

 _“Listen to me,_ meldir _,”_ the elf with the dark hair says. He speaks slowly so that I can hear and understand him. _“I know it is hard, and that you are confused because of the fever and the medicine, but I need you to tell me if you are hurting anywhere.”_

I slowly raise my hand to touch my shoulder, feeling a neat line of stitches in my skin.

 _“Yes, we found the broken arrowhead,”_ he says. _“I am sorry we caused you pain,_ meldir _, but it had to be removed. Is there anything else that troubles you?”_

It takes me some time, but eventually I am able to reach down to lay a hand on my knee.

_“Anywhere else?”_

I try to shake my head.

_“Good.”_

Hands roll me onto my back, and a towel is placed beneath my head as a pillow. The cloth still covers my eyes, and I can see nothing. There are hands on my knee now, prodding it and moving it. I want to cry out for the pain they are causing, but I cannot. The only sound I make is a small whine when one of them bends the joint too far.

_“There is bruising…”_

_“…Swelling… shaped like a horseshoe?”_

_“He was kicked, I think.”_

_“…Need to be drained, regardless… pus beneath the skin…”_

_“Infected?”_

_“Yes.”_

I whine again as the joint is suddenly surrounded in cold. I think they have packed it with ice. Even when the cloth over my eyes is removed, I can see only blurry shapes that seem very far away, and have not the energy to lift my head to see the state of my leg. One of the blurred shapes grows until it fills my whole field of vision.

“Meldir _? Can you hear me?”_

I just barely recognize the voice of the dark-haired elf. I try to speak, or at least nod, but both prove to be impossible. I settle for blinking a few times, and he seems to get the message. As an additional benefit, my vision clears slightly.

He smiles.

_“I have some water I want you to try and drink. I’ve added some medicines to it that will help you feel better, but you must keep it down for it to work. Can you try for me?”_

I blink again, and he lifts my head slightly. I feel the cold metal of a spoon at my lips and I open my mouth. Cool water soothes my throat on the way down, and instantly the spoon returns with more. It hurts my stomach, and the medicated water threatens to return, but I manage to keep it down.

After the tenth spoonful, I feel too weary for more, and turn my head away.

_“Enough?”_

I cannot even blink now; my eyes are sliding shut on their own. I take a deep breath and sigh. He seems to get the message. A fresh damp cloth is placed on my brow. The last thing I hear before I fall into sleep’s embrace is the voice of the dark-haired elf.

_“No, he will sleep for... will keep him... an hour. Let us see to that knee..."_

* * *

I feel cold now. I cannot move. My knee is stiff. I cannot see. My stomach hurts, and I do not know where I am. 

I am still unable to speak. But there is panic and distress building within me, reforming the knot in my chest that had previously dissolved. I think I am shivering. I try to call out, but my voice only sounds like forced air, absent of the graceful lilt and tonality it had once possessed. My throat feels like sandpaper.

 _“Are you awake,_ meldir _?”_

It is the dark-haired elf, I recognize his voice. I try to respond to him somehow. He knows I am awake, though, and that I cannot speak. I feel the spoon against my lips again and gratefully swallow the water it carries.

_“There, you should start feeling better soon.”_

This he says as he continues to let me drink. I do not know what medicine he has put in the water, but after a few minutes, I am not hurting so much. Eventually, I open my eyes to find him sitting beside me, looking straight in my face.

“N…N…Name?” I rasp out, stuttering as I try to make a more substantial sound than the strained wheezes that have passed my lips in recent times.

He smiles. 

_“My name is Elrond,”_ he says kindly.

Elrond. I have heard that name before. I know it from somewhere, somewhere long ago, but I don’t know how to communicate it.

 _"What is your name?”_ he asks in return.

At first, I am completely tongue-tied, as if all of my linguistic skills fled in that single moment. But eventually I begin to spout out the necessary consonants.

“M… M… M… Ma…Ma…” It is so much harder than it should be, and it frustrates me.

_“Hush, it is alright. You’re doing very well.”_

I give him a confused look. I don’t understand.

_“Most elves as far gone as you were never speak again.”_

My eyes widen in shock.

_“Did you not know? Maglor, you were fading.”_

He knows my name. Oh _Eru_ , this elf knows my name… my _true_ name, and not the one I give to strangers on the road to hide who I really am. What else does he know about me? What else can he exploit? Will he kill me, now that he knows who I am? Will he ask for a trial, to execute the last son of Fëanor that still walks Middle Earth as retribution for the crimes committed in the First Age?

 _“Calm down, Maglor,”_ he says, placing a hand on my shoulder. _“You are only going to make yourself more sick than you already are. Take a deep breath.”_ I try. _“Very good, and another…”_

After a minute of that I calm down a bit. This elf has shown his good intentions before, I remind myself. If he had wanted me dead, would he not have left me where I stood and let me pass into the Halls uninterrupted. But I am still very confused; who is he and how does he know my name?

_“You were calling out for your brothers in your sleep. But I recognized you before then. Do you not remember me?”_

“No...I… I… know… y-you,” I stammer out. It uses all of my energy to communicate just those few words, and already I feel exhaustion looming, ready to smother me. I shiver as another chill races through my body.

 _“Shhh…”_ he says as he places a hand on my forehead. _“Just rest now, Maglor. You’re safe now. You’re home.”_


	2. Wandering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing is never an easy task.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you expressed interest in a second chapter for this, and so here it is. As always, please do let me know if you like it. :)

Like all things, dawn arrives, bringing with it soft light filtering in through gauze curtains, and the hushed noises of a household coming to life. But it does not matter, for it changes nothing. Still I stare unblinking at the windowsill, as I have since awaking in the early morning hours, trying to remember who he is and why I know his name. He is important, I know that much, to me and… others… although I have also forgotten them as well. I feel the strain of not knowing when I should is eating me alive, I need to know, I need to remember!

I cannot.

“ _Maglor?”_

I finally blink, but I do not look at the one who speaks. I think if I do, I will begin to weep again, and I am too exhausted to shed any more tears. I do not deserve any of the kindness this Elrond shows to me.

_“I’ve brought you some breakfast… will you try to eat some for me?”_

I sigh and turn over onto my back. It is an arduous task, but it will save me at least some humiliation. The kind face that waits for me when I do finally look at him is almost entirely too much at once, and I quickly drop my gaze. I do not need to see his expression to feel the disappointment radiating from him. Even so, the tenderness in his hands as he props my body up with a mountain of pillows tells me that, disappointment or no, he will never be angry with me. Somehow, that makes it worse.

_“It’s just a bit of watered-down porridge… something easy for your stomach to handle.”_

I do not know if he thinks me too weak to feed myself or if he does not trust me to actually eat if he simply leaves the food for me (I am, and he is right to), but he feeds me as a mother would her young child, even going so far as to wipe my chin when I cannot keep it all in my mouth.

Mother…

Child…

No. Wrong. That is wrong. I grimace and turn my head as the sour thought rolls around in my gut like a bad grape. I wish for the gaping hole in my memory to widen and swallow that thought as well, it feels so wrong.

But… then…

Why does it also feel like it belongs?

_“Done?”_

The tone in his voice is despondent, but my stomach has gone sour, and any appetite I had previously possessed has been obliterated. I nod. I watch through a haze of exhaustion as he sets the bowl aside, and briefly wonder if it is because he has put medicine in the food, or because I am just so weak that even sitting up to eat has taken all my strength.

_“Do you want to sleep?”_

“No.”

I do. But I am not ready to, not yet. I have more thinking to do, while this elf is still here. He nods, then takes a book from the nightstand and begins reading. I try to be subtle, but the act of staring at an elf’s face is hardly a subtle act by nature. Still, he is polite enough to ignore my staring, at least for a while.

His brow is noble, high and angular like that of a king, and he holds himself like royalty. A prince? No. A healer. That much he has demonstrated at least. A healer, and an exceptionally competent healer at that. But… there is something else there as well. The strength and delicacy in his hands, evident even in how he holds the book in his lap, wielding sword and scalpel with equal skill. The way he carries himself, a leader and a servant, confident and soft, rendering judgement and mercy as required. A healer he may be now, but he was raised for a different purpose. He was raised as a prince, and I would know—

No. Stop.

Another sour thought, another wrong idea that feels like it belongs, why? Why the duality of these images? I tense and grimace again.

I must have made a noise, for he has dropped the book in his lap and is staring back at me, nothing but concern in his eyes. He seems older than he should, especially in those eyes. The depth in them tells me he’s seen much hardship over the years, this Elrond. Love and heartache, victory and loss… I wonder if the story of his life should be written in song, a tragedy never to be forgotten…

No! Wrong again!

I flip over onto my side, chest heaving, and my one unruined hand tangles in what remains of my hair and pull. I am drowning in the wrongness and duality and—

_“Maglor?”_

His voice is too deep. Almost right, but not quite there. The timbre is present but lower, raspier, no longer used for singing silly rhymes in the woods with his brother. Age has changed it. Experience has hardened it. He shouts orders over a bloody battlefield now, no more silly games. He isn’t the child he used to be.

STOP IT!

My breath hitches as my clenched fist is enveloped in warm, gentle fingers. His other hand moves to my face, wiping away tears I was completely unaware of. I try to swallow my shame, but it chokes me, and I end up hiccupping instead.

_“Breathe, Maglor.”_

I try, but what comes out is a sob.

_“Deep breaths, just like last night, remember?”_

My breaths do not even out like last night. Especially not once he starts dabbing at my face with a damp cloth. If anything, my tears come faster, and my body shakes with the intensity of my sobs. It makes my shoulder hurt.

_“Oh Maglor…”_

I hurt. In my shoulder, in my leg, in my chest, in the heart I thought was long dead. I can finally feel again, and it hurts so bad. It is crippling, leaving me breathless, drowning in sorrow and shame. I’ve done things, horrible things, that much I know. I deserve this suffering, every minute of it, a thousand-fold and more. But this elf, Elrond, seems oblivious to that fact. He knows who I am, he knows what I have done, he must! But here he sits, holding my hand and washing away my tears, showing naught but kindness to me when I deserve the exact opposite.

_“Hold still. I am going to pick you up.”_

I hear the words, but do not register their meaning, and so I still jump when he grasps my thin frame and lifts me into his lap. This feels wrong, somehow backwards, looking up at him as he leans against the headboard and holds me against his chest. I would be chilled if he did not absolutely radiate heat, but I don’t protest when he grabs a blanket anyway. I had not noticed before, but I seem to be getting warmer every minute I stay in this place.

_“There, that’s better now, isn’t it?”_

His voice is even softer now, and it has a barely noticeable lilt to it. It is almost right, almost like I remember—

I can’t. This is wrong.

My tears return after only a short respite, but the shuddering sobs have at least left me, for now. Why does it all feel so wrong?

_“Would you like some tea, Maglor?”_

It is less of a question and more of a request, and he is already leaning toward the nightstand. There beside the bowl of cold, half-eaten porridge is a simple porcelain teapot and two cups. I watch numbly as he stirs leaves into the steaming water, and wonder if the pot is kept warm by the same old magic we used to—

Those memories are dead. I killed them, and I buried them long ago. They belong to a dead man, that is no longer who I am.

… or is it?

_“Have a sip? It’s peppermint and chamomile.”_

The aromatic liquid trickles into my mouth, sweet and refreshing like honey. It tastes of warm hearths on cold nights in the dead of winter, curled up on a bearskin rug with two little heads of raven black hair resting on my lap, fast asleep. It tastes of home, of family and bitter happiness, of late mornings and warm bread fresh out of the oven. It tastes of _memory_.

It makes me want to be sick.

But I keep sipping, even when the cup is refilled once, twice, and I’ve lost count.

_“I think that’s enough for now.”_

The cup is set aside with a soft _clink._ He just holds me now, rocking gently. Everything is heavy and soft and warm, comforting in every way. It is so much more than I deserve, being held and coddled like this. And yet, I can do nothing beyond shamefully taking what is given, hiding my face in the mountains of fabric that surround me and surrendering to the encroaching march of sleep. Elrond hums a tune as he holds me, the lilting quality returning to his voice in some cruel mockery of a memory.

I cannot bear to continue listening, and quickly fall asleep, retreating to the realm of dreams.

The dreams are no better.

I am pursued through a forest. Howling wolves snap at my heels, nearly tripping me with every step, and my path is rife with hazards: fallen branches, twisted roots, loose stones, fallen leaves. There was once a time when I could have easily bounded through them with the grace of a seasoned deer, but that time is long past. I am old now, clumsy and fragile, and when I look behind me to the wolves, my foot catches on a stray cobble, and I am sent crashing to the ground.

The wolves leap at me, a mass of fur and fang, melding and morphing into a singular beast, a great bear larger than any I’ve ever seen. Its pelt is mange-ridden, skin scarred from many battles both with men and other beasts, and its singular eye glints like obsidian in the dying light of sunset. I scream when its jaws clamp down around my leg.

_“Be still, Maglor!”_

The voice filters into my dreams from some faraway place, and I scream again when the beast shakes its head, tearing the bloody skin and muscle of my limb clean off the bone. I can only watch in horror as it swallows everything it has torn into its mouth. It is eating me alive!

It makes to take my leg again, but before its fangs can sink into the ruined flesh, a comet of white, burning light sails over my head and slams into the bear, knocking it back. It bellows out a great roar that shakes the leaves from the trees around us, but the creature of light stands firmly between us, keeping it at bay. I cannot see its form, as the light it gives off burns my eyes every time I try to look at it, but it rears and brays, and rams into the beast at every turn, leaving weeping punctures in its skin with every retreat. The bear swipes when it can, although its efforts are futile: the creature is too nimble, easily dodging the poorly aimed attacks.

With a primal cry, the beast disintegrates into a flock of oily black ravens, which flutter off into the canopy of the forest, dripping black gore behind them as they flee. The ghostly creature that chased it off dims before me, and the image of a faintly glowing white stag emerges, its eyes black and piercing, and the points of its antlers coated in the black blood of the beast.

I open my mouth to speak, but I can make no sound as the creature approaches. It dips its head to examine my mangled leg, and I shiver when hot breath washes over my raw wound. Where it breathes the bleeding stops, and before my eyes the muscle and skin grow whole again, and I throw my head back in a silent scream, for it burns like fire, worse even than the burn of the Silmaril.

_“There will always be pain when healing wounds so grievous.”_

I know not if the voice comes from the stag or if it wafts into my dream from the waking world, but once my leg is hale, just as the creature has turned and before it too leaves me, I find my voice.

“What are you?”

Its pause is only brief, and its words few, but before it bounds away it gives me its answer.

_“I am hope.”_


	3. Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor begins to remember what it is to hope, and is learning to live again.

_“How is he?”_

_“Better. The fever is down again.”_

_“That’s good, at least.”_

I shiver, rising from the depths of sleep, remnants of my dream still clinging to my mind, and I find that the room is dark again. No, not dark. There is light, but it is muted. I sluggishly lift my hand toward my eyes and find that they are covered by a damp cloth. It is cool and refreshing, and so I leave it there for now.

_“Maglor?”_

I grunt.

_“You have a visitor. Would you like to see them?”_

No.

“Yes.”

The cloth is lifted from my face, and I blink many times to clear the bleariness from my eyes. There are two figures in the room. One is clearly Elrond, although he stands beside me now, and appears to have changed his clothes, causing me to wonder just how long I slept. The other… the other is similar in build to Elrond, although slightly shorter. His hair is a shade of brown so dark one could swear it was black, tied back in a tight, neat braid. His eyes, too, are dark brown, and his face is thin, almost gaunt, with the fingers of his hands appearing long and thin.

A scribe? No, there is a shrewdness in his gaze that betrays an intelligence too great to be wasted as a scribe. A scholar? Perhaps, although his well-pressed, well-kept appearance suggests a more orderly existence than would be led by such an individual. A bookkeeper? Seems the most likely.

_“Hello Maglor.”_

“Hel-lo.”

My voice is raspier all of a sudden, and I wonder if my screams were isolated to my dreams or if I also screamed aloud.

_“Are you feeling better? Elrond told me you were very sick.”_

I shrug. If this is what being very sick feels like, then I have forgotten what it feels like to not be sick. He seems disappointed at my answer. I cannot say I blame him; I am disappointed too.

I let out a hiss when Elrond grasps my maimed hand and tries to flatten it out.

_“Apologies, I should have warned you beforehand… I am going to try to bandage this and give it a chance to heal.”_

The skin of that palm still cracks and oozes, never healing from the burns of the Silmaril. I doubt his efforts will make a difference, but the thought of telling him so makes my chest ache, so I stay silent.

I watch as he spreads cooling ointment over the burn, and it brings a sigh from my lips. It stings, but the more it stings the less I can feel the constant ache that has been there for as long as I can remember.

_“Maglor?”_

I blink when someone pats my cheek.

_“There you are.”_

I refocus on the one who speaks, and Elrond gives me one of those kind smiles he seems to never run out of. A glance to my hand shows it to be swathed in clean white gauze, and I wonder then how long it will be before the oozing from the wound turns it a sour yellow. I slowly turn my head to where the other elf had stood earlier, and I blink in confusion upon seeing two where there had at first only been the one. Elrond seems to catch onto my unease and explains.

_“You wandered off for a while, but I’m glad you came back on your own this time.”_

This time?

Has this happened before?

_“I have some things to take care of today, Maglor.”_

He rises from his place beside me as he speaks, and the first of the two elves I do not know mirrors his motion. I swallow thickly at the thought of not having Elrond with me. The idea sits heavy in my gut, compact like dread and sharp like fear.

_“Elrohir will sit with you while I am out.”_

He rattles off a series of instructions to the newest arrival to the room, speaking far too quickly for my addled head to keep up with. It makes me question if he has been speaking deliberately slow so that I can understand. I close my eyes again, letting their conversation drift around me.

_“… eat something… breakfast sent up… probably more than he’s eaten in weeks.”_

_“… shouldn’t be too much trouble… sleep for most of the day.”_

_“Can… outside for a while? The… and its nice today.”_

_“… careful. And not for… he is still very fragile.”_

_“What if… again?”_

_“Send for me immediately.”_

After that, I hear the door close and there is silence. Thin fingers grasp my unbandaged hand and I turn my head toward the one who I assume to be Elrohir. It takes more effort than I think it should for me to keep my eyes open, but I try to get a good look at him regardless.

He is young, probably not more than probably five-hundred years old, and his face is built almost identically to Elrond’s, though his features are slightly more refined, lighter and more delicate. His hair and eyes are similar enough in shade to Elrond’s that I have to wonder if they are related.

_“Hello, grandfather.”_

I blink, taken aback by the name he calls me by. It feels wrong, like a poorly fitting tunic, too small and too large all at once, but I let the discomfort sit where it is. Perhaps that is just how the youth are taught to address their elders these days? It would make sense. I am probably far older, even, than his real grandfather.

“Hello.”

At least my voice feels stronger, perhaps because I have been awake for a time now, although that may change soon. Why does this exhaustion cling to me so tightly?

_“Would you like to eat your breakfast out on the balcony? It is warm and sunny today.”_

It is a tempting prospect, I cannot lie. It has been… beyond memory since I have sat in the sun simply for the sake of enjoying it. But at the same time, guilt gnaws at my insides when I open my mouth to say yes. I don’t deserve such things. If I am to sit in the sun it will be to bake in the heat, shriveling up and drying out like a raisin until all the life is drawn out of me. Even that is far better than I deserve.

Disappointment looks the same on him as it does on Elrond.

_“Well we can give it a try, at least, and if you want to go back inside we can.”_

A soft knock at the door heralds the arrival of food, and my stomach immediately turns over. Another day, another sour idea, and today that idea is breakfast. Elrohir smiles, though, and releases my hand to get the door. It is a small relief that the items on the tray are similar to what was given to me yesterday: watered down porridge and tea. Anything more than that would cause me to be ill without question.

He carries the tray past me, through a door I had not even noticed the existence of until now. He is smiling when he returns, and he gathers me up in a cocoon of blankets before lifting me in his arms. I hiss when he jostles my knee, but he apologizes quickly, and is much more careful of it afterward.

The sun blinds me the second we pass through the doorway, and the sound of rushing water fills my ears as petrichor and the scent of decaying leaves weave their way into my nose. It is overwhelming, but not in an unpleasant way.

Elrohir settles me on a cushioned bench, sun warmed and soft. He sits beside me and guides me to lean against his shoulder. It is comfortable, and I sink against him, filtering through everything assaulting my senses. Eventually, I manage to open my eyes without being blinded by the sunlight, and I take a deep breath of refreshing air. I feel somehow lighter, as if the oily despondency that has been clinging to my chest for as long as I can remember has, as least for the moment, dissolved into nothingness and been carried away by the rushing river.

_“Better?”_

I nod, having another deep breath.

_“Your porridge has gone a bit cold, but do you think you could eat some anyway?”_

… it would appear I sat for longer than I intended.

Just as Elrond has in the past Elrohir feeds me by hand. I refuse to say that it is something I am growing used to, but humility is a boot that grows easier to wear with each mile traveled in it, or something like that. Where have I heard that before…?

I manage to finish breakfast today, and I cannot help but think Elrond would be proud if he knew. Maybe Elrohir will tell him? I find myself hoping he does. Now, how much of that—

_“Tea, grandfather?”_

I nod, and the youth mimics what Elrond did the day before, stirring leaves and herbs into steaming water and filling the air with their sweet aroma. Today’s tea smells much the same as yesterday’s, bright and refreshing. I can smell the peppermint immediately, but there is more to it than just that. My brow creases as I try to identify what the new smell is, but the answer eludes me until the porcelain touches my lips and I take some of the tea in my mouth.

Lavender.

I blink slowly and sigh, enjoying the mild autumn weather and sipping the tea whenever the cup is brought near my mouth. The beginnings of a smile twitch upon my lips as I stare out across the valley. I know my sight is not what it once was, but I can still make out the reds and oranges of turning leaves on the hillside. I still do not quite know who I am, or remember many of the important things, but for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel a little twinge of happiness.

_“Grandfather?”_

I hum and turn my gaze to the youth.

_“Would you like me to brush your hair? I’ve brought a comb…”_

I nod immediately. I have not been able to groom my own hair for a very long time, and it shows in mats and tangles. In fact, I am surprised that it has not been shorn off completely while I slept.

_“We had to cut out the worst of the knots already. It shouldn’t hurt too much.”_

I dislike the way he seems to know my thoughts before I speak them.

He lays my head down on his lap and I sigh as he begins to work through the mess of my thinning and unruly mane. He is extremely gentle, and apologizes profusely every time he pulls just a little too hard and causes me to grunt. He is right, though: it does not hurt enough to keep me from tipping closer to sleep. My eyes drop shut, and I shift my position to be more comfortable, leaning further, further, further—

_CRACK_

My eyes fly open, and instinct has me struggling to rise and flee. But the thick blankets prevent me from gaining any purchase. Hands, thin and strong, keep me from falling off the bench, and I am distantly aware of the voice that belongs to them, though I cannot understand its words until I lose the brief burst of energy my sudden adrenaline rush provided.

_“—sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, grandfather, I forgot…”_

“Wha…?”

_“The grand tourney is today; the warriors are competing out in the training yard. I think they have started the joust…”_

I let out a deep breath I was unaware I held. Elrohir’s grasp tightens a bit, and I frown but settle back into the bench as another cracking noise echoes off the walls of the valley. There is a little voice, barely noticeable, that whispers in the very back of my mind. 

_You used to do that, too._

What?

But just like that, it is gone.

_“… was supposed to compete today with my brother, but it is a greater honor to sit with you instead.”_

I frown deeper, refocusing on the younger elf’s conversation, after realizing he was probably trying to talk to me.

_“My mother and father will be officiating. Mother always enjoys the competitions so much… she was very excited to see the two of us compete together this year, but I think she will still be happy to see Elladan sweep the hand-to-hand contest. He was always a better grappler than I was… but he hasn’t got a prayer when it comes to horsemanship! Father always said I had a way with…”_

My attention only lasts so long. With a full belly and the sun warming my blanket cocoon, I am perfectly content to lay still and rest, even with the noise ringing through the valley from down below. Over time the _crack_ of lances shattering against shields morphs into the swift _snick_ of arrows embedding themselves in targets, and even that slowly turns into the ring of steel on steel as the tourney progresses, and morning passes into afternoon.


	4. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More new faces, more disturbing dreams, and some unfortunate setbacks.

My surroundings are shrouded in darkness. A maze of blackened stone glass rises up around me, and the sky above is blotted out by an inky haze, leaving neither sun nor moon nor stars to light my path. Only the pale and ghostly glow of infinite emptiness reflected off obsidian walls provides illumination.

I wander through the twists and turns of the maze, sure that I am moving in circles, and just as sure that I am being followed. But this stalker is a skilled hunter, for every time I stop, so too does the soft padding of his footsteps, and whenever I turn there is nothing to be seen but the path I have trodden. And always, when I face forward again, the path has changed from what I remember of it.

It makes my insides twist more than the path itself.

Every minute, the hunter gets closer, his footsteps growing louder behind me, but still I see nothing when I try to catch him. I break into a run, dashing around corners and sprinting down the straight paths. Fear courses through my limbs, urging them to move faster, or die. The hunter’s footsteps only quicken to keep up, like a wolf hunting down the prey that thinks it has outrun the predator, only to find jaws sinking into its neck the next morning.

It is relentless.

I stop short when I my narrow path opens up into a wide and spacious clearing. My pursuer stops as well, the echo of my footsteps falling silent. There is but one occupant to the clearing beyond myself. It is familiar and strange both at once, ethereal and formless but with an unmistakable solidity. I squint, attempting to see its true form.

“… Hope?”

_“No.”_

The creature raises its head, and its light dims, revealing a shape that is both what I had expected and not so. The light collects itself in the form of a white stag, although it seems lesser than the brilliance of Hope. This one… this one is tattered, his hair hanging in thick mats in some places and bare patches in others, and one antler has been torn entirely from his skull, leaving an angry, oozing wound. His eyes are sorrowful, a hazy shade of gray where Hope’s had been entirely black, and his skin is riddled with scars. He seems… sickly.

_“Hope is my brother, and I am not he.”_

His appearance reminds me of myself.

_“You are lost.”_

I swallow the bile that rises in my throat as I am reminded of the mindless, twisting paths of this place.

“Yes.”

_“I can help you escape this torment, but only if you let me.”_

I nod, and when the beast moves off, I follow close behind, through every narrow pass and every winding turn. I dare not lose him in this maze of a place, lest I be lost forever without escape.

Strangely enough, the hunter’s footsteps feel further away now.

“What are you called?”

_“You are not ready to know, yet.”_

We walk in silence for a time, passing spire after spire of obsidian. This place is oppressive: it feels as though my very soul is being squeezed out of my body. Evil, thick and grainy like quicksand, ready to swallow you whole the minute your guard is down. Perhaps that is why the creature I walk with is so mangled. To live in such a place… it seems impossible.

The ground is no longer barren, as we pass through the maze. Dry grass crops up at the junction between stone and earth. Continuing on brings more and more features to the landscape, like hardy lichens that cling to any crevice they can find in the black stone, and small white flowers that seem just barely alive.

“What is this place?”

_“A trap.”_

Although this creature seems more talkative than Hope, his answers are no less cryptic.

After what feels like hours of walking, passing stones that all look identical in the half-light provided by the stag’s glowing form, I begin to notice small white shards littering the sandy ground we walk. The shards begin as few, and soon grow more numerous, coming in larger chunks, until I recognize them for what they really are.

Bones.

“What—”

_“They tried to leave this place without my help, and they died for their stubbornness.”_

The beast delicately lifts his feet over a half-smashed skull, and I immediately trip over a rib that is half buried in the dirt, tearing my foot open on the sharp shards. I hope that my bloody footprints will not attract the figure that stalks me.

_“I am the only thing that can free you from this place. No warrior can best the hunter that tracks you, for although he only possesses one arrow, it will always strike true, it will always take a life. No scout can navigate this maze without me, for the paths are ever-changing, and only I know their true forms. Do not forget these things, lest your bones be the next to join them.”_

I do not speak again for some time.

When we finally stop, it is before a wide chasm. Obsidian walls rise up on either side of where we stand, but across the abyss is a wide-open prairie, long grasses waving in the wind, and I think I can see animals grazing. It is a far cry from the hellish environment we have just come from.

_“This is where we must part.”_

I look to the creature, and against all odds, its expression seems to contain even more sorrow than before.

_“Your hunter is nearly upon you.”_

“Will you tell me what you are called, now?”

The hiss of an arrow flying through the air catches my attention and I drop to the ground, but not before the creature of light bounds forward, coming between me and the arrow’s source. It strikes him straight in the neck.

With a strangled cry, he collapses before me, and while he yet lives, I take his broken head in my lap, trying to provide a little comfort to the one who saved me from this place. His breath is ragged, and his silver blood seeps into my clothing, staining the ground around me. Still, his hazy eyes find my face, and he speaks.

_“I am that which drives us to stand tall when we are afraid, to fight when all hope is lost, to protect, even when it kills us. I am the purpose behind sacrifice, and the precursor of passion—"_

The creature shudders, and I know that it draws its last breath.

_“I am love.”_

In that moment the cliff face falls away from beneath me and sends me tumbling soundlessly into the abyss.

Voices flit around me like fireflies in the dark. I hear sounds of distress in the background, further away. Someone is weeping. People are upset, but I haven’t the faintest idea why.

_“Is he?”_

_“… coming back… slowly.”_

_“See? There… worry about.”_

_“Maglor? Are you with us?”_

That is the voice of Elrond, and I recognize the others, but cannot place them. My cheek is pressed up against something hard and sharp, although not sharp enough to break my paper-thin skin. I think I can feel the same hardness through the blankets surrounding me.

I groan, having forgotten to respond initially.

_“That’s better… deeper now.”_

_“Oh, thank the Valar.”_

I squirm at that last term. Much like the idea of breakfast had, that word feels sour and wrong.

_“… inside.”_

Dizziness washes over me, and I feel like I am falling. I try to reach out and grab something to steady myself, but the strength in the arms that hold me far surpasses my own, and I simply end up squirming. My thrashing stills when Elrond speaks again.

_“Be still, Maglor. I will not let you fall.”_

Why is it so easy to trust him?

_“Do you want me to draw a bath?”_

_“Not just yet. Perhaps later.”_

Metallic clicking fills my ears, and if there is more conversation, it is lost to me. Instead, I allow the rocking motion on the very edge of my senses lull me back towards sleep.

_“His fever is back up… and my kit. I need to look at…”_

Soon the rocking is replaced by the soft touch of the sheets of my bed, which is quickly becoming familiar territory. I sigh, settling into the comforting fabric as more blankets are shoved in around me, bundling me in heat and weight. When did it get so cold?

There is more metallic clicking, and I pry one eye open, then blink both when the sight before me finally registers. There is Elrond… in a suit of armor? I frown again, and it morphs into a grimace when the image makes it feel like iron bands constrict around my chest. The sight feels familiar, familiar and wrong. He is a healer, why is he in armor? And why does he wear it like a warlord?

_“Maglor?”_

I blink again, and the armor is gone now, replaced by a loosely fitting robe that looks as though it was tied off in a hurry, with the front barely closed and the sleeves still bunched awkwardly at the shoulders. Briefly, I wonder who taught him to dress himself. My brows are knit once more, as my thoughts spin round and round on the question of whether the armor was ever really there, or if I imagined it.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve hallucinated something so simple.

_“How are you feeling?”_

Only one word comes to mind.

“C-Cold.”

He sighs, taking my hand and giving me one of those sad, apologetic looks of his.

_“I know. You’re running a fever again. I’m going to check on your wounds and make sure they aren’t causing problems, alright?”_

As he finishes speaking, he starts peeling back the blankets surrounding my shoulder, and I sluggishly turn my head to give him an easier time of it. Funnily enough, I only just barely remember it being cut into. I watch him check my hand next, and sure enough, the gauze there is yellow and tacky with the fluid that constantly oozes from the burn. 

He shakes his head before moving on to my leg.

When the air hits my skin I shiver violently, and Elrond has to hold my knee still in order to look at it. I swallow thickly, and frown again when he shakes his head again and steps back.

_“Is Elrohir back yet?”_

_“No.”_

I follow his gaze to the only other occupant of the room, and to my utter confusion it is someone who looks identical to Elrohir… only they had just said that Elrohir was out… why… what is happening?

_“Shhh… it will be well, Maglor. We will clean your hand and knee again, so that the infection can be drawn out and you can heal, I promise.”_

Elrond dabs at my cheeks with a damp cloth, yet again, and that is when I realize that I am weeping again, and—

_“I have it!”_

_“Good. We can’t afford to waste any more time than we already have.”_

_“Is it…”_

_“Yes.”_

Elrond leaves my side then, and my hand is taken by… not Elrohir. It is disconcerting, being surrounded by all of these people that look the same, and my head spins trying to keep it all straight. Elrond… healer, prince, no not prince… warrior? Maybe? Elrohir… maybe a healer? Maybe not? Looks like Elrond, acts like him… related? Same smile… rides horses, jousts… and… this one…

_“Don’t worry, grandfather. Everything will be alright.”_

I want to ask who this elf is, and why he looks so much like all of the others I’ve met so far, but before I can, Elrond returns on my other side, and he has a cup in his hands.

_“I have some medicine for you.”_

I shut my eyes and groan. I do not want it.

_“It will help your fever.”_

I hurt, and I just want to be done with this. I want to dissolve into nothingness and fly far from this place.

The damp cloth is back, wiping away the tears that roll down my face as my head is lifted. I try to blink away the tears so that I can see, but it is an exercise in futility. There is always more, and just when I think I’ve cleared my vision, more tears form and fall soon after.

_“Here…”_

The cup is brought to my lips and the liquid that seeps into my mouth is bitter and oily. It goes down easier than I want it to, and there is less of it than I was expecting. I smack my lips and try to rid the taste from my mouth, to no avail.

_“I know, it is a vile thing.”_

I sigh and make a face, sticking my tongue out at whichever one of the three speaks, earning a tired chuckle. Fingers brush through my hair, and now there are no mats or tangles to snag on, thanks to Elrohir and his diligent work with the comb. It brings a brief smile to my face.

_“Better?”_

“N…”

I trail off without the strength to finish even that monosyllabic word.

_“Give it time.”_

I sigh again, and my eyes drop shut. Delicate fingers feel my forehead and the sound of shuffling flits around the room.

When I look again, one of the younger two, I think it is Elrohir, peels flakes of dead skin from the palm of my burned hand. Elrond stands by my knee, using a knife to cut through the neat line of sutures present there. Strange, I cannot feel anything of what they are doing. Is this, too, a hallucination?

_“Shhh…”_

I blink sluggishly at the voice that comes from behind me. Calloused fingertips guide my head to lean back against… something. It is soft and warm, and its rhythmic rise and fall is oddly soothing. I close my eyes again as the fingers turn my face away from the scene before me.

_“Go back to sleep, grandfather. I’ll make sure to wake you up when they’re done.”_

That doesn’t sound like such a bad idea…


	5. Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor meets someone new, and he is not happy about it

I do not return to sleep. Instead, I walk the border between sleeping and waking for what feels like eternity. I rouse only slightly when I hear the others talking. I cannot piece together what they are saying anyway, so I am reluctant to waste the energy trying. I seldom have any to spare these days.

_“Hand me… no, the other one.”_

_“What…”_

_“… might not be worth it.”_

_“Do you think… his hand?”_

There is a deep and heavy sigh, and I funnel all my energy into prying open a single eye, so I might have at least an idea of what’s going on. What I see are Elrond and Elrohir, at least I think it is him, staring at my mangled hand while the latter cleans out the burn. I want to tell him he shouldn’t bother, that it won’t heal, no matter what they try. It’s too stubborn, and I’m too stubborn, and if I had only left them there, I should have never taken those blasted gems, never, never, never—

_“Shh, don’t listen to them.”_

The voice trickles through my troubled thoughts, soothing away the rising panic. I had forgotten that there was one behind me. I think I am laying on him, perhaps…

_“Go back to sleep, grandfather.”_

I can’t.

He turns my head again, and I feel rather than see the disappointment this time when my eyes do not immediately drop shut again. The one behind me sighs, tightening his grasp on my torso while his free hand holds my head. What is there that he does not want me to see?

Calloused fingers run lightly over my scalp and I sigh.

This one is not Elrohir. His fingers are softer, more delicate. This one has hands that work, that wield a weapon, hardened by a heavy grasp. I cannot see his face, but from afar he looks indistinguishable from Elrohir. I think I will have to rely on their hands to tell me which is which.

_“Elrond?”_

The voice is feminine and followed immediately by a soft gasp. My eyes follow Elrond’s gaze to a petite figure standing in the doorway. I have to blink a few times in order to focus… silver hair cascading in waves down a strong back, delicate features, familiar and foreign both at once. She is dressed in silver green, a perfect complement to her hair, giving her an ethereal air, and her face… were it not contorted in shock, it would be beautiful. But… something in her brows… her nose, perhaps? It is…

No.

It cannot be.

I see Artanis in her face.

Dread settles in my gut, and metal bands of panic constrict my chest. Instinct tells me I must flee, that I need to be as far away from these people as I possibly can. She will want revenge for… something… there is always something… something that I did, or my family did, something to bring them grief. I need to leave.

But I cannot. My head spins as I try to escape the arms that hold me fast, though all I end up with is a wave of nausea, and weakness that seeps into my very bones. There are hands on my face again, along with the tears I never seem to run out of. My limbs tremble, all of my scant energy is spent, and I cannot fight when more blankets are piled on me. How is it that there can be so many and I am still freezing?

_“—ther? Grandfather? What’s wrong?”_

I cannot even spit the words out. They get caught in my throat and now I can’t breathe. Why? Why does everything here make my chest hurt? Who are these people, and why, oh why are they helping me? If there is anyone who does not deserve this kindness, it is me…

_“Maglor, look at me.”_

Elrond is back, holding my face so close to his that it is the only thing I can see through my unnumbered tears.

_“Breathe.”_

It is ragged and short, but it is a breath.

_“More. You know how this works.”_

I try. There are hiccups, and I want to retreat, but there is nowhere to go. My awareness of the room shrinks until it contains only myself and Elrond. Everything else melts away into obscurity.

_“Good. Keep going. You’re safe here. No one is going to hurt you.”_

I want to believe him. I really do. But… something stops me. I make a small, uncomfortable noise in the back of my throat, and I have to wonder if this will be what my life will be for the remainder of my existence. The idea of my entire being consisting of nothing but the spaces in between episodes of paralyzing fear and crushing dread is… disheartening.

_“I’ve got you. You’re safe. It’s just me, just Elrond.”_

He pulls me away from the body I’ve been laying against, and he cradles me against his chest. Against my better judgement, I cling to him like my life depends on it.

“Why…”

My voice croaks worse than a rusted hinge, choking out the syllable between sobs.

_“Why what, Maglor?”_

“Why… are you… helping… me?”

There is a long pause, and I wonder if it is because he does not know the answer to the question either.

_“Because I love you.”_

I don’t deserve love. I don’t deserve his love, especially. He knows who I am, he knows what I’ve done. I’m sure I’ve wronged him or his family or some ancestor of his at some point, and that he would tell me he loves me is… breaking me. But at the same time… it doesn’t feel as wrong as I think it should.

I sit quietly in his arms as I think, and my muscles are beginning to ache from the constant tension they’ve been under since that woman walked in. I try to pull away, knowing that my tears are probably soaking straight through Elrond’s thin clothing, but he immediately draws me back. He doesn’t seem to care, constantly whispering small comforts to the shell of my ear. The words are lost on me, but the intent is clear.

_“Maglor?”_

A raspy grunt is all I can manage.

_“I have some medicine for you.”_

I do not want it. I turn my head when he brings a dropper near, but damn if he is not persistent. It ends up in my mouth despite my wasted efforts. That’s all I am these days, it seems: a waste. Waste of space, waste of food… wasting away into nothingness. I keep waiting for that to happen, but it never does.

I want to hate him for spending so much time trying to help me when I clearly do not deserve it. There are probably others around far more deserving of his attentions than I, ones who are hurt or sick or fading because of what I’ve done. But in the end, I feel more sorry for him than anything.

_“Any better?”_

If only.

His hands wander over my back and shoulders, rubbing out the stiff musculature. It hurts, in a good way. Old knots that have lain dormant for months make themselves known and I hiss when Elrond tries to work them loose. He stops when I cry out, as he touches a particularly tight one, and if it did not leave me gasping for air I might have the presence of mind to be embarrassed of the noise I am making.

He frowns, reaching for the dropper bottle again, and I turn my head to bury my face in the nearest hiding place I can find. Unfortunately, my options are limited, and it does nothing to stop Elrond from shoving more of that dreadful medicine into me.

_“Elrond?”_

My eyes screw tightly shut at the sound of that same feminine lilt drifting over the healer’s shoulder. Perhaps if I cannot see her, I will not have to think of how she looks like Artanis.

_“I’m so sorry, Brí…”_

He sounds so sad. 

_“Why didn’t you tell me?”_

There is a long pause, finally broken by a deep, heavy sigh that I cannot contain any longer. Hands rub at my shoulders, and when they work at the knots wound there, they actually begin to come loose, relieving aches that I’ve carried for the longest time.

_“I wanted to protect him.”_

_“From me?”_

_“From his past.”_

_“How much has he lost?”_

_“Near everything.”_

My next inhale is deep and shaky, but I breathe out so much tension, I wonder if there is even any left. Delicate fingers scratch lightly over my scalp, and I would shiver if I wasn’t so tired. It feels… nice.

_“I want to help.”_

I blink lazily, and even when I look her in the eye, the iron bands fall away from my chest and I breathe freely.

_“I know.”_

He sounds sad again. It takes more effort than I would have imagined, but I manage to unclasp my hand from where it’s been clenched in Elrond’s robes for the past however long, and I reach instead for his hand, trying to provide what encouragement I can. He’s brought me back from the brink of death, and even if I didn’t wish for it, I owe him for it. It is the least I can do.

_“He’s very fragile, Brí.”_

To my surprise, he entwines our fingers.

_“I know.”_

I try to squeeze his hand, although it takes more than I can spare to even make my fingers twitch.

_“Have you considered…”_

_“No.”_

_“But Elrond…”_

_“No.”_

His voice carries more force, and I flinch at the edge in his tone.

_“What if this only prolongs his suffering?”_

The soft fingers leave my scalp, and Elrond’s hand tightens around my own, eliciting a whine from my lips. Instantly, his grasp loosens.

_“If he dies he will be cast into the void. How will that not prolong his suffering?”_

Their argument continues. I should bristle at their words, they should terrify me, frankly. But the iron grip of panic that tries to constrict around my chest slides right off, unable to find purchase. Even when their voices rise again, I cannot bring myself to care. Numbness steals over me, drowning out the tension and the anger in the room. Time loses meaning, and I give myself up to sleep.

* * *

I am still cold. Even beneath the mountain of blankets that seems to grow every time I wake, I am still freezing. I am alone for the first time since my arrival, and I feel a strange mixture of unease and relief. On the one hand, I do not have to be reminded of painful things from the past. On the other hand, the one marred with an oozing burn that never heals, I find myself missing the constant company.

Since I first met him, Elrond has done nothing but shower me in more love and attention than I have felt in centuries. His sympathetic gaze, his sad smile, his gentle hands, they all make me want to live. He’s put so much effort into helping me recover, I imagine it would break his heart to see me die now. Dare I say it: He gives me hope. Even when I fall into the death grip of fear and despair, when I wander in dreams both waking and asleep and stray far from reality, he is there to bring me back to the present. He says he does it because he loves me, but I cannot understand why he would. Me, a murderer and a kinslayer, a thief and a vagabond. I deserve none of this, let alone the love and mercy he practically smothers me in.

_“Maglor?”_

Perhaps I am not as alone as I think.

It is slow going, but I sigh and peel back my eyelids to see who speaks. I have to blink several times before I gain enough focus to make out the face lit by dim candlelight. It is not Elrond, or Elrohir, or even his nameless look-alike, and thank the powers that be, it is not that woman. But it is an elf I have seen before, and it takes a minute of thinking before I realize.

_“Are you hungry?”_

It is the bookkeeper.

_“I have some supper for you, if you would like it.”_

I gradually make an effort to sit up. Supper doesn’t sound particularly appealing, but my stomach makes a sickly growl at the thought, and I realize that feeding it will probably quell the ruckus, at least. The bookkeeper seems to catch what I am doing, and adjusts the herd of pillows that seem to live in my bed with me so that they at least provide some support. Parasitic gremlins… I almost make myself chuckle at the comparison.

“Where is Elrond?”

My own voice surprises me with its clarity, even if the croakiness is far from gone, at least I can get the sentence out in one breath.

_“He and the twins have retired for the evening. I volunteered to stay with you, tonight.”_

I watch him closely as he uncovers a bowl present on the nightstand, folding the towel neatly beside it before taking a spoon and offering me some of its steaming contents. The aroma alone is enough to make my stomach growl again, but once the warm broth hits my tongue, I cannot stop myself from wolfing down every spoonful that is offered to me. I would be lying if say I am not disappointed when the bowl eventually runs dry.

_“Perhaps later I can send for more, if you are still hungry…”_

I nod sheepishly, and he gives me a warm smile.

_“It is good that you have an appetite. Elrond will be pleased about that.”_

My full belly warms me from the inside, and I sink lower into the cushions.

_“He seems adamant to save you, and any good news has him lighting up like a child on their naming day.”_

A tired smile finds its way to my face at the image.

_“He thinks he’s figured out how to do it, too, although he’s worked himself in knots trying to decide the best way to go about it. I tried to tell him he needs to do more research before jumping into something this permanent, but he’s made up his mind, and you know how stubborn he can be…”_

Do I? I suppose I do, in a way.

_“I don’t suppose he got that trait from you?”_

I frown, mulling over the statement. No? How could he? After all, we’ve only just met.


	6. Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond has a plan to save Maglor, and Maglor wrestles with demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bring your flashlights, guys, this one gets dark. Or if flashlights aren't your thing, bring a teddy bear or other comforting object of choice. There will be gore, there will be death, and there will be really bad dreams.

_“… can’t even consent to something like this in his current state!”_

_“You know we don’t have a choice.”_

I sigh, awareness returning to me in several stages.

_“Except we do! We can wait, or even find another way.”_

First is hearing. There are people arguing, and I can already feel the tension growing in my shoulders.

_“There isn’t another way.”_

Next is pain. My hand has always hurt, but now the pain is different. Instead of the sticky stinging sharpness of a burn that will never heal, it is thick and heavy, a crushing ache that runs from the middle of my forearm to my fingertips.

_“Then wait!”_

After that comes my voice. I groan and try to move my arm away from whatever is causing this extra pain, but I cannot.

_“No, we have to move quickly while his fever is still reasonably low. If we wait, the infection may flare again and take his life anyway.”_

Finally, I bring myself to open my eyes. There is Elrond, winding bandages around my hand as he has numerous times before. But this time, he binds them tight enough to crush me. I think I can see the ends of my fingers turning violet.

_“He will never play again.”_

The voice is forlorn, and I turn my head to see the same elf who sat with me the night previous. I still do not know his name.

_“I do not think he will ever play again even if we do not go through with this.”_

I whine as Elrond ties off the bandages, sealing my mangled hand in a vice of gauze strips. It isn’t until then, apparently, that the other two notice that I am awake. Funny, even though I catch more of what people say every day, I cannot seem to parse out the meaning of their words any faster.

_“Good morning, Maglor.”_

It is the other elf who speaks, the one whose name I do not know. He looks, for lack of a better word, tired. And it makes sense, if he did stay with me all night.

“Good morning.”

_“Did you sleep well?”_

For the first time in a long while, I can nod without lying.

_“Erestor told me you ate quite a bit for supper last night.”_

Elrond smiles optimistically, beaming like a father watching his son hunt his first deer. Strange, that sort of comparison would have caused me great distress before, although now it feels almost welcome…

_“… need me to bring Elrohir?”_

I blink, returning to the conversation at hand. At least the lapses in concentration appear to be growing less frequent.

_“No, keep both of them busy, if you can. I… do not want either of them to have to see this.”_

I frown, becoming concerned.

_“Elrohir will understand, but Elladan will probably not. And I do not know if either will have the stomach for it.”_

I use my unbandaged hand to rub at my eyes. Elladan must be the one who looks like Elrohir, probably brothers… and Erestor… that must be the bookkeeper with the delicious soup…

_“Maglor?”_

Another blink, and now Elrond holds a mug out to me. I glare at it suspiciously, and out of the corner of my eye I can see Erestor leaving, shaking his head as he passes the doorway.

“Can I… have breakfast first?”

My voice is shy, tentative, much like a scolded child’s.

His response is forlorn, tinged with regret, and there is a careful hope in his eyes, but I can see worry creeping in at the edges of his face.

_“I’m sorry, Maglor. Not today.”_

I can’t help but frown. Does he think I am growing fat?

_“You can have tea, though.”_

I crane my neck forward as much as I can and sniff the mug he holds. It smells nauseatingly sweet, but the hint of peppermint is still there, not quite drowned out by the lavender and whatever makes it smell so… disgusting.

_“Will you at least have a little? A few sips?”_

The way he wheedles makes me even more wary. Even at the beginning, he would not beg like this. But then… hadn’t he said something earlier about needing to move quickly? Maybe that had something to do with it. And whatever it was he was rushing for seemed to be something Erestor disapproved of…

_“… if I admit that there is medicine in the tea, will that make you any more likely to drink it?”_

I snort, then wheeze, shaking my head as he adopts the same shy demeanor I had used when asking for breakfast.

“No… not really.”

He looks crestfallen, and I feel a bit bad for fighting him. But... even if Erestor disapproves of whatever it is he plans to do, hasn’t he shown his prowess as a healer enough for me to trust him to know what medicine will help me heal? I want to trust him, but years of wariness make me hesitate.

_“It will help with the pain in your hand…”_

I snort again.

“You are the one who bandaged it so tightly.”

He immediately winces, and I feel worse for it, even if it is the truth.

_“I know… but the burn is infected, and the sickness has been spreading through the rest of your body. That is why you have been so ill… I promise I am doing it to help you.”_

I sigh. My arm does ache, although at this point, I have hardly any feeling beyond my wrist. There is a clear quiet voice that whispers in the back of my mind, telling me to trust him, and I am sorely tempted to. He’s saved my life, more than once, probably. If there is anyone in this world that deserves to be trusted, it is Elrond.

I rub my eyes again with my good hand. My burned one feels like lead, and I doubt I could even lift it. In the biggest show of faith I can muster, I lean forward and gesture for Elrond to bring the tainted tea forward, and I sip. It tastes just as sickly sweet as I had anticipated, and it leaves my mouth feeling sticky and numb. But I swallow, mouthful after mouthful until there is nothing left.

I smack my lips, trying to restore some feeling to them, but all I can manage is a detached tingle. In fact, detached is quite the apt descriptor for how I am beginning to feel regarding the remainder of my body as well. The ache in my hand is entirely absent, and if I tear my gaze from it for more than a moment, I might believe the hand itself is absent as well.

The jumble of slurred syllables that come out of my mouth when I try to ask what in Middle Earth he put in that tea serves only to startle me and elicit a sympathetic smile from Elrond.

_“I know, I am sorry…”_

At least he sounds like he means it, although it is getting harder to tell as the world drifts further out of focus.

_“Truly, I am.”_

I couldn’t move now even if my life depended on it. Bone-deep weariness pins me in place, and everything is numb and tingly. I think I can just barely make out the distant sounds made by Elrond shuffling around the room, but I cannot focus long enough to pick out anything of importance. With a frustrated sigh, I give myself up to sleep.

I do not remain in the silent darkness for long.

The distant sound of crackling flames catches my attention, quickly growing to a dull roar in my ears. Heat licks at my skin, and even though I cannot yet see the flames, I know very well that they are there. When I do finally open my eyes, I am met by an achingly familiar sight.

A ruined city stretches out before me, broken bodies lining the cobble streets that are soaked in elven blood, homes ablaze with unholy fire. There is a tower in the distance, also wreathed in flame but still whole, as of yet, although I know it is only a matter of time before the masonry crumbles under the heat.

I have seen it happen too many times before.

Something draws me toward that tower. I do not know what it is, but there is something important in there, something I need to see before the inevitable collapse of the structure. My feet carry me there, through the ruined streets, beyond burning buildings and over corpses. I try not to look, but I cannot stop myself. Most of them are soldiers, uniformed either in red or silver, although many also appear to be civilians. Bile rises in my throat when I see a body smaller than the rest, and I realize that whoever attacked this place showed no mercy.

None were spared, not even the children.

I keep expecting to see a white specter stepping beside me among the destruction, proud and brilliant like Hope or strong and resilient like Love. But there is none. There is only me and the ruined lives of the deceased around me.

Even ascending into the tower, there is no escape from death. I have to pick my way up the stairs, there are so many bodies crowding in, and the stone is slick and crimson with their blood. Everything is on fire, every tapestry, every rug, and sometimes even the corpses become fuel for the ever-spreading blaze.

The steps conclude in a grand, circular room. There are children’s toys strewn about the floor, and a bookshelf against one wall, its contents joining the toys on the floor, and some even becoming yet more fuel for the flames. Crude drawings decorate the space, and there are two identical beds overturned near one of the windows. I swear I see a flash of white fly out the window just before the curtains catch fire.

_“Maglor?”_

I spin on my heel, turning to face the source of the ragged voice that called my name, expecting yet another cervine phantom.

What I see is far from what I expect.

It is the biggest wolf I’ve ever seen, snarling and snapping at the air like it expects to be attacked at any moment. Its pelt is wreathed in flames, although the fire seems to be more a part of it than devouring it. One eye burns with the light of fury and desire, hotter and more intense than any mundane flame, while the other sits dead in its skull, blackened and hard like an unlit coal. 

_“Have you found it yet?”_

I frown and shake my head, taking an unplanned step back. Something about this creature feels very, very wrong.

_“Well keep looking then!”_

It snarls, snapping at me, and I take another step back.

_“We cannot afford to let it go again!”_

I do not know what it is the creature seeks, but I can only watch in shock as it leaps forward and begins to tear the already ruined room apart, nose to the ground and tracking its prey. It catches me staring, and snarls again at me.

_“Stop staring at me like that! What are you even doing, just hoping it’ll fall from the sky and into your hands? Get busy!”_

Fear grips my heart, and I will my body into motion, if only to silence the menacing beast that threatens me. I still do not know what it is I am supposed to look for, but I move about the room regardless, halfheartedly peering under overturned furniture and rifling through piles of clothing and toys, hoping that I am not the one to find this thing.

As I move, my steps become noisier, and I leave bloody fingerprints on whatever I touch. Looking down, I discover why. I am clad in similar armor to some of the fallen soldiers, although it appears to be of a finer make. My cloak is heavy velvet, crimson in color, and my gauntlets are saturated in blood, the gold filigree tainted by red brown gore.

It is when I am sorting through yet another pile of children’s clothing, staining each article with an endless trail of red fingerprints, that I find them.

I doubt they are what the wolf searches for, but I cannot stop myself from staring at their beauty nonetheless.

Twin fawns, newly born and helpless, sleep peacefully in the pile of clothing, blissfully unaware of the carnage around them. Their pelts are the purest white imaginable, mottled with spots that shimmer between shades of silver, red, and darkest black. They glow, just as Hope and Love, somehow more brilliantly than either. I cannot resist the temptation, and I reach out one hand to touch them, but before I can bring my hand down, a fat drop of blood falls from my glove, forever marring the fawn’s perfect coat.

I sob, and it garners the attention of the wolf.

_“What have you found?”_

The best snarls, leaping over a broken table to see what I’ve discovered. It sticks its massive head in the pile of clothing to sniff the infants, and growls when it finds the blood splattered now over both twins.

_“These are not what we seek. Dispose of them. Quickly.”_

My eyes widen at its request, and I shake my head in disbelief.

“No.”

_“You must. It will be a far more merciful fate than they will receive from the fire that will eventually claim the tower. It will be quick and painless, if you do it right.”_

The beast’s snarling manages to wake the twins, and their shimmering eyes stare in horror at the flaming predator. I rise, and take my stance between them and the wolf, using my arms to block it.

_“You’ve tainted them, Maglor. Death would be a mercy for them.”_

“No!”

_“If you do not have the stones to see it done, then step aside and I will do it for you!”_

I draw the sword at my hip as the wolf rises up on its hind legs, morphing into a far more imposing form. It rises as a pillar of fire, clad in brilliant armor that mirrors my own, etched in filigree and marked with a seven-pointed star. The apparition stands a full head and a half taller than me, a river of fire cascading down its back where I feel like ruddy hair should be. Its eyes bear the same crazed light as the wolf’s, and its right arm ends in an armored stump where the hand should sit.

“If you intend to kill them, Maedhros, then you will have to kill me as well!”

Time slows.

Sound ceases, drowned out by the frantic pounding of my own heartbeat.

Sharp pain strikes me in the chest, although the phantom does not lay a hand on me. It sends me to my knees, spreading through every fiber of my being, leaving me paralyzed as I am overwhelmed by the flood of memories that the agony brings.

I am swept aside, like chaff in the wind, by the ghoul that wears my brother’s face, and I can only watch in horror as he advances upon the helpless fawns. I scream as he takes the first one by the throat. The infant struggles weakly in his iron grasp, and with a flick of his wrist, he snaps its neck, and the lifeless body is thrown aside to feed the ever-growing blaze that devours the city.

Tears cloud my vision. I muster every ounce of strength I have remaining, shoving my own pain aside and rising as the floor begins to shudder beneath my feet. I remember now. I remember who I am, who I was. It drives me forward, urgency growing as the phantom reaches for the second fawn. The stabbing in my chest tries to drag me back, but I remember the sacrifice of Love and the vivacity of Hope, and I grab onto my brother’s cuirass and try to pull him away.

_“Begone, weakling!”_

The apparition snarls with the voice of the wolf, but I hang on with the determination of a man driven to desperation. I take a step back and the floor crumbles beneath my weight, disintegrating out from beneath us. We fall, and the abomination is flung against a wall as the tower collapses, and his form shatters into fragments of burnt glass.

Darkness rises up to meet me where the ground should be. There is no impact, only the crushing silence and gloom accompanied by the constant sense of freefall.

It swallows me whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you know that thing that happens when you know exactly where you’re taking a story so you just… keep writing? Yeah. I did that. So chapter 7 is done. But I think I’ll sit on it for a day or two, let it ruminate and all that, but I promise you’ll have it before Saturday. Promise.


	7. Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor's delirious dreams continue while Elrond attempts to save his life, and our beloved minstrel is forced to make a choice that will change his life forever.

I expect to wake in my bed, groggy but mostly whole, with Elrond fretting nearby.

I do not expect damp grass on my cheek and the sound of waves crashing against stone, but that is what I get. I groan, blinking sandy earth out of my eyes and lifting myself up off the soggy ground. This place is dark, but it is not the oppressive darkness of the obsidian maze. This darkness is more… restful. My surroundings are lit only by unnumbered stars flickering in the blue-black sky.

I stand upon the edge of a cliff, and out before me extends nothing but water, churning gray waves beating ceaselessly against the rocks below. Somehow, I know exactly which sea it is that I face.

Gone is my armor, along with the bloodstained gauntlets. I feel cold, although there is no wind to sap the heat away from me, and no frost clinging to the blades of grass and stones around me.

Turning my face from the sea, I look behind to see a pine forest, wreathed in shadow. The gloom flows from it in streams, bleeding like a deep wound. It feels wrong. It is too still, and I can hear the howling of wolves in the distance, and the growls of larger beasts.

I want nothing to do with it.

As I return to face the sea, I catch the faintest fluttering sound from over my shoulder, and nearly jump over the edge when a moon-faced owl lights on an old stump sticking out of the grass beside me. Silver eyes stare back at me, where I first would have expected onyx, like the deer that seem to constantly follow me in my dreams.

_“Who am I?”_

It tilts its head as it asks the question, and I at least take the time to think for a moment before giving my answer.

“I do not know.”

Before my eyes, the owl dissolves in a flurry of feathers, and regains its form not as a bird, but rather as a far more elf-like figure. He stands even taller than the demon that I fought in the dream previous, towering far above me. His features are delicate, refined, and flawless, and his raiment mimics the tawny feathers of the moon-faced owl. He is… beautiful, in his own way.

_“Who am I?”_

He repeats the question, and his voice reminds me of the stream that flowed near Amon Ereb, where I used to take the boys to play on warm afternoons in the summer…

Flashes of those memories dart through my mind faster than a hunter’s arrow. Elros catching a toad and asking to bring it home. Elrond collecting colored stones that struck his fancy. Fishing for trout in the autumn. Maedhros… Maedhros teaching the boys to swim so that they could play in the water safely.

The last one makes my chest ache.

_“Maglor.”_

I refocus on the being beside me.

_“Do not wander into memory just yet.”_

I bow my head, like a scolded child.

_“Who am I?”_

It doesn’t take me as long to figure it out this time.

“Irmo.”

_“Very good.”_

We stand in silence, then, staring out at the churning sea for what feels like eternity, but eventually the stillness is broken by a strangled cry. To my shock, the sound came from me. My hand, the one that was burned, feels like it has been frozen solid, encased in ice and sending a chill racing up my arm.

“What—”

_“You are bleeding.”_

My heart races in my chest, and I look desperately around for the blood I am apparently spilling, but I find none.

_“Not here, but in the waking world. Elrond is fighting to save your life.”_

Elrond… Elrond, Elrond…

Memories once again flood my vision.

Twin heads of black hair bobbing around the scant gardens of Amon Ereb, picking herbs for the kitchens and the healers because _Every little bit helps, little ones_. Wooden training swords, identical and sized perfectly for adolescents, because _This is war, and you need to be able to defend yourselves_. Late evening lessons in mathematics, writing and policy, because _You are my sons, and you will be raised like my sons, as princes_. Pain in my chest as they ride off, surrounded by soldiers in blue, one of them is crying, but I know this is for the best because _They will be with their kin now, and what we had was never meant to last_.

But there is more.

Gentle hands delicately tangled in a mat of ruined hair, bringing respite to a tormented soul. Comforting words whispered to ears that cannot understand their meaning. A noble visage, disguised in healer’s garb, a prince who takes on the duties of a servant. Kind eyes, a soft smile, a protector of those who are vulnerable, a leader to those who seek love.

He’s grown so much.

Tears gather in my eyes, and I fall to my knees. I clutch my freezing hand to my chest and sob, lamenting every memory that, until now, had been lost to me. How painful must this have been for Elrond, knowing that I had been the one to raise him and seeing that I had no idea who he was…

_“Do not cry.”_

The voice is different: deeper and warmer, like a blazing hearth in the dead of winter. A puff of hot air ruffles my hair, and I look up.

_“You need not cry any longer. I am here. You can rest now.”_

It is a young buck, white as snow, like Hope and Love. His eyes shimmer in the dim starlight, shifting between shades of silver and red, and darkest black. His antlers are smaller than the others, betraying his relative youth. My tears burn hot as they fall, and hotter when I see that the buck has, on his shoulder, a patch of bright blood-red hair. It is the only thing that mars his otherwise perfectly white coat.

_“Oh Maglor…”_

The creature rests his head on my shoulder, blowing warm air on my neck.

_“I was never perfect.”_

“But your brother—”

_“—had a different fate than I. There was nothing you could have done. There was nothing anyone could have done. Even I screamed to be taken in his place, although you could not hear me.”_

I weep harder.

The buck chuffs in my ear, and then its head is gone from my neck.

_“You are running out of time, Maglor.”_

The voice is raspy, and it brings me to open my eyes, although I do not remember closing them. I am lying down, my head and shoulders resting against the body of the young buck, his head in my lap. Shimmering eyes blink serenely back at me, but he is not the one who speaks.

_“Elrond is fighting for you, but you must help him if he is to succeed.”_

Out of the darkness of the pines steps a familiar figure, scarred and worn. His chest heaves with the effort of simply walking, and the arrow that he saved me from still protrudes from his neck, causing him to drip silver blood with every step.

_“There is still time!”_

This voice is brighter, bolder, and I turn my head to see another figure bound out of the darkness. He is just as brilliant and energetic as he was first I met him, and the oily black gore of the bear he saved me from still coating his antlers.

_“He cannot rush this choice, it is his to make!”_

I frown, glancing at each of them in turn, before my gaze settles back upon the figure of Irmo. He smiles, and offers me a hand up. Even if the warmth of the buck is a tempting reason to decline, I know I must rise eventually, and so I take it. The buck chuffs, then rises, shaking out its coat before it follows after me to the edge of the cliff.

_“Maglor Fëanorion, you stand upon the edge of a precipice.”_

Irmo’s voice is darker now, no longer babbling as a happy stream in the wilderness, but hard and swift like a waterfall.

_“You are the last of your father’s sons to still walk Middle Earth, and now you must make the choice to continue, or not. You know what sea you stand before, and you know what awaits you on the other side, should you leap over the edge. You know what darkness you have passed through, and you know what awaits you within, should you turn back and face it again.”_

Hot air washes over my icy hand, and a damp nose sits inside my palm. I break my gaze with Irmo to find the young buck nuzzling into my hand, and I smile a bit.

_“I will follow you to whatever end you choose.”_

_“As will I!”_

_“And I as well.”_

I turn, and there stand Hope and Love beside the younger buck. With a heavy sigh, I lightly scratch under the young one’s chin and he blinks slowly back at me.

“Irmo?”

_“Yes?”_

“What were the things that attacked me in my dreams? They must stand for something…”

The Vala frowns, watching me stroke the buck’s ears.

_“They were your despair, your pain and self-loathing, creatures born of your final encounter with your father’s gems. The second you touched them you were found unworthy, and they burned and ate away at your flesh, destroying the façade that you had created for yourself in thinking that your oath would overcome the blood you had spilt in fulfilling it. The beasts you fought were embodiments of everything you felt in that moment, and they have haunted you ever since, devouring every joyous memory and thought of happiness you possessed. These emotions took the forms of things you knew to fear: wild beasts, your enemies, and the insanity you saw in Maedhros.”_

I cringe, when I hear it spoken, but I know that he is right.

_“Your brother endured the same, when he touched the gems. But the despair they caused was compounded by his own pain from wounds past, and it overwhelmed him, causing him to cast himself into a pit of fire.”_

My chest aches, knowing now that the suffering I endured was largely at my own hand, and that I caused others no small amount of grief in my suffering. The buck presses his head against my shoulder, bringing me out of my darker thoughts.

_“You can leave that behind now. You have the chance for a new beginning, whatever your choice.”_

His rich voice brings me comfort, and I sigh out the tension in my shoulders. He is right. I can start over now, wherever I end up, either forward or back.

_“You cannot stay here forever, Maglor.”_

Irmo’s voice is hardened again, commanding my attention. My eyes are drawn back to the Vala, and he continues, his voice dripping with power. It isn’t difficult, now, to see the relation between him and Námo.

_“You must make your choice. Cast yourself over the edge, and commend your soul to my brother’s care, or return the way you have come and pass through the long darkness to return to life.”_

I glance back and forth between the cliff and the forest, feeling like my soul could bleed out of my body at any given second. Time is running out, and I do not know what to choose.

If I cast myself into the sea, I will be with my family again! I will see Maedhros, and the twins, and Celegorm and Caranthir and the rest. I will be with father again! And Curufin and Celebrimbor! Maybe we can all be reborn, someday, and then we can even see mother again! Hope quivers with excitement beside me, knowing my thoughts and feeding off my emotions.

But…

If I return through the darkness… I can truly start again. I can have a new life, with Elrond and his household. I will never again live as nobility, but I do not think I would want that anyway. I think I would be happy just to be with Elrond, and I think he would be happy too. Maybe someday I can get him to tell me where Elros is, and we can go for a visit. Maybe someday he will have children of his own, and I can help raise them in the way I should have done for him and Elros… My heart grows warm in my chest, and Love stamps at the ground and chuffs behind me, knowing that I think of everything he stands for.

“And what of you?”

I ask as I turn to the young buck.

“What would you have me do?”

The creature blinks dolefully back at me.

_“I will follow you wherever you go, for I—”_

_“Maglor.”_

The voice that speaks is barely a whisper, clear as the peal of a bell and deeper than the deepest pits of Angband, richer than all the treasures of the earth. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. The air on the cliff grows suddenly heavy, and colder than I could have ever imagined. Black smoke gathers in the clearing, collecting into a form that mirrors Irmo’s shape and build, eventually manifesting in a similar being clad in thick, black robes and baring eyes of white fire from beneath a heavy hood.

My heart drops out of my chest as The Judge meets my gaze.

_“It is time to go, Maglor.”_

“No, wait—”

_“—I am Memory.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do love it when cliff-hangers occur on an actual cliff. :)


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor adjusts to the consequences of his decision, and meets someone unexpected.

It is… not as bad as I had initially thought it would be.

There was pain, of course, and many other uncomfortable things to grow used to, but used to them I did eventually become. If there is one thing I have learned in these past few centuries (Centuries? Millennia? Time seems to blend all together here, and in reality, it matters little), it is that patience is almost as fine a teacher as experience, although her lessons are far lengthier and more trying.

It is a lie that time heals all wounds. It only makes them more bearable, though that is helped largely by the company of others one trusts, as I have learned. For how many years did I wander alone in the wilderness, suffering until the fever from that wound nearly killed me?

Every day, I express my thanks that it did not.

The day I awoke, it was like a fog was lifted from my senses. My sight, my hearing, nearly everything felt restored, at least in some capacity. Now I can look over the valley from my balcony and see the individual leaves on the trees as they bud, grow, and eventually turn colors and drop in the autumn. Sometimes, I even think I see a flash of white fur bounding through the woods across the falls, but I know it could very well be a trick of the light. I can follow conversations without being lost in words, although that took far more time to accomplish. With time, I even regained much of my physical strength. There are few things as freeing as being able to walk on one’s own without growing immediately exhausted.

It brings me joy every day when I can stand out on my balcony like this, under my own power, watching the valley go about its business, and humming soft tunes to myself.

That is another thing I had to learn again.

The harp on my mantlepiece is used largely for decoration these days, although there are times when I can manage simple melodies on it.

Anything more complex is entirely impossible with only one hand.

But it is a small price to pay for the gift of life I’ve been given. I still have my voice, and although it will never be what it once was, its grown less raspy with time and effort. It was horribly embarrassing at first, attempting to sing and producing what can only be described as wet-sounding honks instead, but I can at least carry a pleasant tune now.

Still, I seldom sing for others. I find it far more rewarding to write for the younger musicians and hear my creations played by those who still possess their talents. There were even a few younglings who sought to take lessons from me, after it was discovered that I was alive and present in the household, to my great surprise. At first, I declined all of them, requesting that they find another to teach them music, but that changed after Celebrían began helping me.

I have so much to thank her for.

The day she stormed into my quarters with a stack of paper and a quill was the day my new life truly began to improve. I had nearly fallen out of my chair, when she dropped the stack on the table and loudly announced that she was going to teach me to write with my remaining hand.

She definitely has her mother’s tenacity.

It started out with basic letters, of course, relearning to write the Tengwar I haven’t used in centuries, with my formerly non-dominant hand. It was exceptionally slow at first, but many long nights of practice paid off, and from there it was only a few years before I was writing music again. But she didn’t stop there. After that, she began dragging me out of my room in the evenings, sometimes physically, to sit in the garden with her and Arwen while they embroidered, or to sit in the great hall and listen to the musicians play.

My initial fears of her had all but vanished, and I started finding myself extremely grateful that she married Elrond. After all, somebody had to pull him out of his shell, and she definitely has the obstinacy to do so.

When she left, I think she took a piece of both of us with her.

But life goes on.

I wept to see the grief manifested in my grandchildren, when Elladan and Elrohir fled into the mountains and swore death upon every Orc in sight, and Arwen left for Lothlórien and the comfort of her grandmother. I wept harder to see Elrond trying in vain to save her, watching her be devoured by the very demons that had haunted me when I first came out of the wilderness. The worst was seeing him blame himself when he failed, and I have to wonder if he would have done the same if I had chosen differently.

It was not until Estel arrived that I saw him truly smile again, even if the child’s primary purpose in the household was to cause no small amount of mischief. I think having a young thing to raise helped him move past the grief.

Even so long after losing my hand, some things, of course, I will never be able to do as I once could. I still cannot braid my own hair, but I think Elrond enjoys helping me with it anyway. I do not think I could wield a sword if I tried, but we agreed long ago that I had best avoid it, for my own sake as well as for others. At least I am able to—

_“—emember what I told you.”_

_“Yes, of course.”_

My ears twitch at the sound of voices outside my chamber door, interrupting my internal musings. One of them I can recognize as Elrond’s but the other… I do not know. The accent is… odd.

_“Wait here.”_

A soft rap is heard upon the frame of my door, and I have to smile. No matter how many times I tell him otherwise, he still knocks. He is my son. He will always be welcome in my space. I shuffle inside, closing the doors to the balcony as I do.

“Enter.”

_“Maglor? Do you have time for a visitor?”_

I feel rebellious today, and I give Elrond an exaggerated sigh.

“If it is another prospective harpist, send them to Lindir! I don’t care if they only want to use one hand. Besides, I haven’t the space in my agenda.”

He chuckles back at me, this not being the first time I’ve said something similar to him. He smiles, taking my hand in his and giving me a wry look.

_“Should I tell Erestor not to expect you at the chess table tonight, then?”_

“… you must have learned such cruelty from Maedhros, because I certainly wasn’t the one to teach you that.”

He erupts in laughter, dropping my hand.

_“Please? He has come an awful long way to see you.”_

“Guilting me into visitors? Now that one you definitely learned from me. If I had a sheet of parchment for every time I had to do that to Maedhros, I’d have enough to rewrite Pengolodh’s _Annals of Beleriand_ , correctly this time, with illustrations!” 

_“Of course, father.”_

The look on his face tells me he isn’t convinced, but I know it isn’t worth the effort to try and convince him over something so trivial.

_“He only wishes to consult your expertise on poetry and literary works. Although I’m certain he would love to discuss the nuances between Vanyarin and Exilic Quenya with you if the mood struck you. He only wants to talk, I promise.”_

“Not like that fool from the Greenwood?”

_“No, not like that fool from the Greenwood.”_

“… fine, I will see him.”

He gives me the same smirk he would when he was small, any time he had gotten his way after an argument. I would like to say that I’ve missed it, but I really haven’t. These days, it just makes the stump of my arm itch, and brings a heavy sigh from my lips.

I pull a chair away from the table that sits beside my window as Elrond leaves to retrieve this visitor, and I drop myself down into the padded seat with a groan. I might have come a long way since my arrival here, but I am still old, and my bones know it. While I wait, I bundle the stump of my arm up in one of the small padded blankets Celebrían made for me when the wound was still healing. They are old enough that the stitching is coming undone, and a few are stained so badly no amount of washing can clean them, but they still provide some padding and keep the chill from causing my arm to ache too badly.

_“Um, good afternoon.”_

I look up, expecting perhaps some inflated dignitary from one of the other elven realms, or even a young noble from one of the larger mannish settlements, come to marvel at the relic from times long past. What I see instead is empty space, until I turn my head downward, at which point I am faced with a very dwarf-like individual. Shorter, even, than a dwarf, and not nearly as stout, he almost looks like a miniature man, if not for the oversized, slightly pointed ears.

“Good afternoon.”

I blink down at him, somewhat owlishly. He is dressed neatly in a pressed waistcoat, curly graying hair atop his head and… nothing but more curly fuzz atop his bare feet. Curious. Perhaps he is one of the shire folk I have heard whisperings of here and there from travelers chattering as they pass through. Elrond has told me of them before, I am sure. Even beyond that, there is something odd about him. It feels wrong, like a grease stain on fine robes, dark and powerful but faded, like someone has tried to wash it out, but it still clings to the fabric… but I could just as easily be imagining it.

He bows quickly at the waist, seeming, for lack of a better word, a bit nervous, but I incline my head in return as he introduces himself regardless.

_“Bilbo Baggins, at your service!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well there you have it, folks! One complete story arc, as requested. I think this one is done for now, although I've been toying with the idea of writing some shorter vignettes that tell snippets of what went on between this chapter and the last one. That won't be for a while yet, but still let me know what you think of the idea, or if you want to make a suggestion for a specific scene you want to see me write. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking around until the end!


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